


Shattered Expectations

by marimoes



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Celene & Briala are together, Dorian Pavus Has Issues, Elven Racism, M/M, Masks, Orlesian (Dragon Age) Balls, Rated M for suggestive moments, but is ultimately just protective, hidden kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:47:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24340810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marimoes/pseuds/marimoes
Summary: “Is everything alright?” Lavellan asks, and tugs at the ribbon behind his head to free his mask. It falls off his skin like a breath of fresh air, but it's nothing compared to how his lungs finally feel full when he breathes. “Dorian?”“I could ask you the same,” Dorian responds.He’s quiet. Dorian is never quiet.
Relationships: Inquisitor & Cullen Rutherford, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 2
Kudos: 57





	Shattered Expectations

Star-filled night blankets the sky above the palace, cloudless and pristine. It pulls a strong breeze to blow across the courtyard, making the mask against the Inquisitor’s face vibrate. A soft shutter on his skin that draws both a tickle, and a reminder of his annoyance with it. 

After the last ball, he was certain there wouldn’t be another he would have to attend. Not any time soon, at least. 

Yet, posed with his arms crossed on the railing, he again stands. 

“Too warm for you?” The voice may be distorted from the noise curling around it from the doors being opened, but it’s still clear as the sky who’s there. “Maybe now that I’ve left it will cool down a little.”

Hands wrap around Lavellan’s stomach, dipping over the edge of the sash. He doesn’t move, only hums when a head drops into place on his shoulder, and laughs when a kiss graces the top of his ear. 

“Well, you brought the heat out here now. How unfortunate for me,” he says, tilting his head to rest against his free shoulder, “You find any scarves this time?”

Dorian tsks, kissing the ridge of Lavellan’s ear once more. “No, sadly. Even after I requested them last time, they told me they didn’t have that many. Said I could have five, but what good is a dance with only half the amount of scarves?”

“It’s practically nothing,” Lavellan responds, tone sardonic, “Might as well give you none at all.” 

Dorian presses a harder kiss against Lavellan’s neck, shifting the taut collar down from covering the skin. It makes him shiver in a quick jolt, and the metal of his gauntlets click against the railing. 

Another kiss is given higher, and another, and another—each working up and along Lavellan’s jaw until Dorian pauses next to his chin. The hesitation is maddening, leaving a buzz of excitement Lavellan was unsure he could even feel in Orlais.

“Josephine will kill us,” Lavellan groans, unable to even turn to look behind them. All he can do is focus out onto the courtyard ahead as he waits for Dorian to move.

“Oooh, you really know how to sweet talk don’t you? How ever did you know that it takes a death threat to get me going?” Dorian murmurs, voice dipping lower. 

With a quick shift of his hips, Lavellan is quickly made aware his partner isn’t lying. Not when the firm outline in Dorian’s pants slides up and off his ass _just right_. 

“Maker’s Breath, we still have things we have to do,” Lavellan nearly moans, head falling back against Dorian’s shoulder. 

“Praying to a god that isn’t even yours? You’re practically melted in my hands already, _your worship_.” The words are purred against Lavellan’s cheek, but Dorian obeys taking a step back. “I will give you a five minute head start so you can put yourself back together. It’s more fun that way, anyways.”

“What is?” Lavellan asks, retightening the sash and Dorian takes slow and measured steps back towards the door.

His hand curls to rest against the gold coated edge, fingers tapping to make it gleam in the moonlight. A similar sliver of shine comes from beneath the edge of his mask as he smiles, and he chuckles. The sound alone drives the hair up on the back of Lavellan’s arms.

“Unraveling you, Amatus. Seeing that iron fist of an exterior break under my hands is worth more than any item you’ll find on these grounds,” Dorian says, eyes sweeping head to toe before turning back into the hall. “So, don’t let someone else get to you before I do.” 

The door doesn’t completely shut when Dorian leaves, given the trickle of noise left to float behind Lavellan’s back. He has to go back in once the five minutes are up, he knows this, but none of him wants to. 

Even with Briala helping assist with the throne, the stares that come with being who he is—it crawls on his skin worse than the spiders along the kitchen’s windowsill. 

“Inquisitor?” 

Lavellan turns to find Josephine’s head poking around the doorframe, smile wide but clearly fake on her face. There must be someone he needs to meet. Someone that she’s not too happy to speak to either. 

She pushes forward, grin still tugging on her cheeks and behind her emerges a man nearly a foot taller than them both. His mask fully covers his face, leaving no read at all on his expression and a discomfort in Lavellan’s stomach. 

“This is Monsieur Charles Montau, ambassador to the Western court. We’ve been trying to meet with him as of late, as you remember, but as luck should have it he’s here,” Josephine explains, tone level yet gracious as it always is in her introductions, “Please, feel free to speak here without any disruptions.” 

With that she dips her head, holding a hand out to the balconies’ edge before stepping back. Montau returns the bow, holding the door open for her as she leaves. All things considered, he seems perfectly polite—but that means nothing in Orlais. 

“Monsieur,” Lavellan greets him, giving his own bow, “An honor to finally have you for conversation.” 

The ambassador steps forward, letting the door shut with a solid thump behind him and crosses his hands to rest against his stomach. With the chill of night drawing colder by the moment, Lavellan finds himself desperate for the warmth that was here only a moment ago. 

“Do not get me wrong, Inquisitor. It is not that I did not want to meet you before now, rather that your company in general is already difficult,” Montau says. His fingers drum gently against his belt for a moment before threading together. “You see, even with the Empress’ new… involvement with Briala, it is still not standard for you to be here like this.” 

Where discontent once stirred in Lavellan’s stomach for the prejudice that oozes from Orlais’ borders, it is now replaced by something else. Reassurance. Power. 

“I do see. Well, I appreciate you speaking to me regardless of societal influence, as the inquisition is much more than just myself. With your assistance, along with the help being obtained by the Empress, we can ensure a larger measure of safety along your borders,” Lavellan explains, pushing off the railing to stand taller. Every inch counts in a place like this, every tweak of posture—that’s what Josephine taught him. “So please, consider.” 

The ambassador’s foot taps, once, twice against the marble floor. His head turns to look out along the courtyard, pausing once his gaze again finds Lavellan. 

“I shall. Just know how fortunate you are to be up here enjoying the view. Should fate have had its way, you may have been tucked away elsewhere tonight,” Montau hums and the smile on his face is clear in his voice, “You are very stubborn though, it seems. Wouldn’t have exactly made for good help.” 

Lavellan takes a step forward, just one before his mind stops him. “Help is exactly what I’m trying to offer.” Irritation again forces him forward, and if not for the mask against his eyes the ambassador would see fire. “Whether you take it or not isn’t up to me, but when demons sink into your floor—melting away at the things you hold dear—remember this moment.” 

A low laugh comes from behind the ambassadors mask. “I shall. Now, I am going to return to the original purpose of this event. I suggest you do the same, Inquisitor.” 

When the door reopens, the noise inside is much louder than before. The music fast and bright, leaving Lavellan to curl his hand into a gentle fist. 

“Dancing has begun,” Lavellan notes, forcing his tone even again, “Hopefully I see you on the floor later, enjoying yourself.” A slow bow, then, “Monsieur.” 

A short nod is all that’s given in return before the ambassador slips back into the building, gone in an instant among the crowd. The burn of irritation scalds Lavellan’s neck as he paces for a moment. Back and forth six times across the marble before calm collects over him. 

When he reenters, his eyes are searching in an instant. A strained focus pouring over bodies in the hall as he pushes gracefully towards the ballroom. Still, he doesn’t find what he’s looking for; that glimpse of green he needs. 

A hand grabs Lavellan’s shoulder and with a swift jerk he turns, slamming his hand into the crook of their arm. 

“Maker! Calm down, it’s just me,” Cullen hisses as he bends in pain. Lavellan winces, placing a steadying hand over the attack site, and Cullen sighs. “I saw the ambassador leaving ahead of you from the balcony. Seems Josephine finally trapped him for us—how did it go?” 

Lavellan forces his ears to wiggle once before tilting his head. “Oh, you know, the usual. Trust is so terribly hard to place in a _knife ear_ like myself, given that usually the only time the ambassador has to speak with people like me it’s to request more butter.” 

“Did he actually call you that? I’ll have his h—” Cullen fusses, eyes immediately up and scanning the room, but is stopped by a harsher grip on his elbow.

“No, he didn’t, but he was probably thinking it given what he _did_ say. I think he’s still going to consider working with us, so don’t go off kicking his ass yet. Besides, I want that pleasure,” Lavellan says and Cullen releases his hold, “Please, Cullen, enjoy yourself a little tonight. If nothing else, know that I have a bottle with our names on it once we return to Skyhold.”

Cullen sighs into a laugh, fingers scratching at the back of his head. “Right, right. That sounds nice, but only if I can survive being pulled to the side by some random woman every twenty minutes. It’s like clockwork. Do they have a schedule set or something?” 

A soft giggle comes from the corner and Cullen keeps his eyes fixed forwards as red grows on his neck. 

“Maybe. I wouldn’t put it past them,” Lavellan grins, and in the corner of his eye catches a flash of emerald. Cullen looks in the same direction and gives a grin of his own. “I have my own schedule to adhere to—remember the wine.”

Short nod of goodbye given, Lavellan slips through the crowd. His eyes stay fixed against the back of the mask, and feels his heart race when he lands within arm’s reach. Still, he misses when he reaches out. His gloves only catch air and with a bewildered blink he realizes his target is no longer in front of him. 

With a rapid spin, Lavellan’s eyes strain at his surroundings. He’s nowhere at all. 

A hand tugs against his jacket, but no one is behind him. Realization very nearly hits him before he’s shoved forward, one step at a time with awkward urgency. He’s directed towards the double doors down the hall, hand stuttering against the handle trying to get it open as pressure grows against his back. 

It’s closed far faster than it was opened, and only then in the cover of a night filled library does he finally see. 

“You shouldn’t use that ring in public, Vehnan,” Lavellan teases, hands folding behind his back as he turns to face the library, “They already get so skittish about simple magic here.” 

When Dorian doesn’t retort, or follow, Lavellan turns back to look. His lover is pressed against the door, head doing the same against his chest.

“Is everything alright?” Lavellan asks, and tugs at the ribbon behind his head to free his mask. It falls off his skin like a breath of fresh air, but it's nothing compared to how his lungs finally feel full when he breathes. “Dorian?”

“I could ask you the same,” Dorian responds. 

He’s quiet. Dorian is never quiet. 

Lavellan steps closer again, mask curling into his hands against his chest. “Of course. Nothing more than I’ve already experienced before. Did you hear me speaking to Cullen?” 

Dorian’s head lifts up at that. Mask still on, he feels farther away than he actually is, and it’s taking everything in Lavellan not to just rip it off himself. 

“No, I didn’t. I didn’t have to. I saw the ambassador leave ahead of you from the balcony. Nasty man that Montau is, so I only assumed,” Dorian mutters, arms tucking into themselves, “Tell me something though—he didn’t mention anything to you about me, did he?” 

Lavellan’s brows furrow. “You? No. Why would he?”

Dorian pushes himself up from the door, exhaling harshly as it presses from his nose. Where nothing else has made him anxious tonight, Lavellan now feels it grow in his stomach. What would the ambassador have to do with Dorian? 

“Like all things that are lovely about my life—my father,” Dorian says, voice singsong with no ounce of joy within it. 

His hands brush against the spines of the books against the wall, lingering on one at the end. With a gentle tug, he pulls it away from the others. It isn’t opened once in his hands, only inspected quietly before his hands tighten around it, making the leather of the binding creak. 

Lavellan takes another step forward, one in hesitation, and Dorian’s head jerks up. It’s so hard to read his lover like this—but not impossible. 

“I take it they’re close?” Lavellan asks, trying to lighten his tone. It doesn’t work as well as he’d hoped it would, leaving him to sound nearly sarcastic. “Still, you’re not here with him, you’re here—”

The book in Dorian’s hand is thrown, slamming against the stairs before clattering down them. His breathing is hard, leaving his chest to heave as his hand shakes. 

“It doesn’t matter _where_ I am, or _who_ I’m with. I’m a Pavus, and that sets every expectation he would ever need,” Dorian grits out, voice wavering behind his teeth, “My father has done his best to hide everything away, but I know that the truth is out there, and that means Montau knows it too.” 

Lavellan swallows, trying to collect his thoughts before responding, “Knows—about you? About us?” 

“Yes, but none of that even matters when I think about how horrible he probably was to you. How proper you probably had to be anyways, just like I always was,” Dorian says, and his hands press against his mask. 

His fingers curl around it, jerking it free from his face before throwing it the same direction as the book. Lavellan doesn’t look back when he hears it shatter. He only keeps his gaze forwards, taking another step closer.

“But I don’t give a damn! I don’t want to hide anymore. Not from myself, or you, or the world, or even the _fucking fade_!” Dorian’s hands reach out and grab Lavellan’s shoulders, tugging him the last step to close the distance. 

Lavellan catches himself against Dorian’s chest as they both stutter back against the bookshelf, eyes finally meeting. When they lock it’s nearly electric, and Lavellan swears his hair must be on end. Dorian’s hands slide up from his shoulders to cup his face, digging beneath the hook of his jaw. 

Their lips meet with a hiss that dies into a heavy sigh. Dorian’s lips are sweet when Lavellan pulls his lower one into his mouth—remnants of champagne soaked strawberries—and he grins. 

Separating for only a moment, they both pull in a deeper breath of air before continuing. Teeth click and hands tug as they twist, landing Lavellan’s head to slam against the shelf. The books shutter, threatening to fall, but remain still as they too settle. 

Dorian’s hands float, drawing lines against the velvet of Lavellan’s suit until they reach either side of his hips. He tugs forward, rolling his hips against Lavellan, earning a strangled moan from his lips. It’s swallowed with a grin, and another follows it in kind as Dorian’s hips again roll. 

Lavellan tucks his hands around Dorian’s neck, pulling him back with a swift jerk. Their lips pop on the release and Dorian growls in disapproval. 

“Stop that,” Lavellan warns, placing a final quick kiss on his lover’s lips, “I still have to show my face for a dance, and I need it to not be red with a first edition imprinted on it.” 

“I think they would look past it so long as it wasn’t a second edition. And that dance—it’s with me, I hope,” Dorian replies, hand reaching up to brush free strands back into place.

“You know, I was actually thinking of asking Cullen. Give him a little bit of a change for once,” Lavellan muses with a smirk, and Dorian’s hand tightens its grip on his hip. 

He leans forward, capturing Lavellan’s lips again. It’s gentle, soothing, as opposed to the rush from before. 

“I want the rest of the night to be different, ok? No masks of any kind. Just us,” Dorian whispers, pressing his forehead against Lavellan’s. 

The music changes in the ballroom, and while it’s still muted by the walls, it hangs in the air between them. It’s a waltz. Much to his expectation, Lavellan watches as Dorian’s eyes grow wide in excitement.

“Well then,” Lavellan says, stepping to the side out of Dorian’s hold. Silently, he gives a single, slow bow before extending his hand forwards. “may I have this dance?” 

Dorian laughs, but takes his hand and sighs, “You can have them all, Amatus.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I dunno, I dunno. I just love them a whole lot and the idea of Dorian shattering a mask that he physically wore to have it metaphorically hold weight was too tasty to pass up. 
> 
> Pavellan, man. 
> 
> Twitter: @__moes__


End file.
